Another Marathon, Metaphorically (NIAW 2015)

It’s National Infertility Awareness Week, and I’ve been slacking on posts this year.

I’d be lying if I said a successful cycle didn’t lessen the sting of infertility, but even though I hardly write about it anymore (mostly because I am just not sure how at this point in my life) doesn’t mean that it isn’t still part of me. Yes, I write probably too many posts now about parenting, twins and toddlers because that is where I am right now and that was what this blog was meant to be about. Still, I can’t let the week go by without addressing it somehow.

I’m essentially re-blogging a post I wrote 3 years ago – an analogy that, as a runner, helped me explain infertility to those who might not understand. Running has been and is such a big part in my life that I find the analogy still fits.

I’ve finished two marathons.

It still feels weird to say that out loud. That, twice, I’ve trained, run 26.2 miles, and crossed the finish line. A feat I once related only to “crazy people” (well, that’s still appropriate) and people who run way too much (oddly now also appropriate).

When I started this blog, it began as a week by week training log for my second marathon, as I was preparing to do it mostly alone. A journey to the finish line. It also began as a place to log my fertility journey, as I was starting to feel more and more alone. Another journey to the finish line.

Infertility is a marathon.

At the start of the race, the excitement is palpable. We have all trained for this. We got up at the chirp of the alarm (and in my case, after several smacks of the snooze button) and regardless of the weather, regardless of mood, regardless of (most) illness, we ran. We ran 12, 16, 20 miles on a Saturday for no reason other than this day, this opportunity to run this race, cross this finish line, accept this medal, and feel this incredible accomplishment.  We skipped movies and drinks and went to bed early. Months of runs, hundreds of miles. We are ready.

Adrenaline begins pumping right from the beginning, the first few miles a breeze. A thousand or more people in your exact situation are running with you, some a bit faster, some a bit slower, but it doesn’t matter. You’re all in this together. Even if you lose the people you started with, there are still plenty around to match pace with, plenty of energy left to get yourself there.

Discomfort begins to set in as the miles add up. The number of people begin to thin. You begin to realize just how far 26 miles is. You start to wonder what you got yourself into, and start the ipod search for your most motivating songs on your playlist. If you didn’t know you could run 20+ miles already, you might consider dropping out. But ultimately the vision of the finish line, the medal, the feeling of victory keep you going. Somehow, something pops up at just the right time that keeps you from declaring defeat – a random cheer from a stranger, a particular song, knowing who is waiting for you at the finish line.

Pain sets in around mile 20. The end feels so close yet so far away. Your body starts to scream at you. The group of a thousand you started with has dwindled down to 3 or 4. The slight envy you once felt for the faster runners has turned into full out jealousy. You know you’ve trained harder than most of them. Seriously? How are you all finishing before me? You begin to feel every step, every pound of the pavement. Any change in terrain is physically difficult to recover from. Curse words are becoming more regular.  None of the three hundred Ipod songs are gonna do it, and even taking in half a Gu (an energy gel for distance runners) every mile doesn’t seem to be doing a darn thing. You hurt, you’re tired. You’ve gotta be the only one hurting this much. The finish line, though only a few miles away, feels like it’s never going to appear. The warnings that the true test is after mile 20 suddenly make sense.

Somehow, though, through combination of a force of will, stubbornness, training, and the few out of the group that stuck with you, you cross mile 26. And suddenly, though there are only a few runners left in the immediate vicinity, the crowd gets larger. You suddenly forget how sore you are because you can SEE the finish line. Somehow, you muster the energy to finish strong,  because suddenly you hear your cheering section, the crowd clapping, the announcer calling your name.  Somehow, you finished, and you feel incredible.

Also, you still hurt.  But despite it, you kept running.

When I first stepped foot onto the pavement my first run, (which was like, halfway around the block before I couldn’t breathe anymore) – I never imagined myself running a marathon. In fact, even after my first half marathon several years later I thought to myself “who wants to essentially do this twice? No thank you!”

When I first imagined myself with a family, in my house with my white picket fence (though I’d really prefer a privacy fence at this point in my life), I never imagined it would be a problem. I didn’t even know what infertility was.

I’m still waiting to cross the finish line.

In retrospect, I survived marathon training one run at a time, one week at a time, one long run at a time. I survived the race, particularly at the end, one mile at a time. It still hurt, in fact, it hurt quite a bit. At the end my calves were so sore I literally hobbled to the car.

But I’d do it all over again. I’ll remember that day and who was with me for the rest of my life. All of the pain and exhaustion was absolutely, positively 100% worth it.

One day at a time, one mile at a time, I await the day I can say that again.

This post was created as part of The Analogy Project, started in order to help others better understand the infertility experience.

Thinking Back

About a year after the move to South Carolina, my ex husband and I bought a house in a city about 45 minutes from Charleston. It was in that neighborhood that I met my first friends that weren’t automatically associated with the military. These women eventually formed a Bunco group who met once a month with a built in excuse to drink wine, chit chat and scream like kids on a roller coaster after a good roll.

Naturally, I was no longer in the group once we moved, but not too long after I moved back, this time by myself, I was welcomed back in. Many of the members have changed since then, but the atmosphere has never really shifted.

Friday night, after I left my wet flip flops in the foyer and grabbed a plate of food, I joined 3 others sitting at one of the tables. One of the women is a fellow mother of twin toddlers (hers are nearly 2). Unless you count the handful of outings I’ve taken with only one baby, I have zero experience as a mother to a singleton. Still, I know that motherhood to twins is a different experience entirely and enjoy having someone to share stories with from time to time. The most common (and unknowingly loaded) question I find that I get (from singleton and twin moms alike) is “do twins run in your family?”

I was very open about our road to parenthood as we traveled it and now is certainly no exception. The majority of the time, and in this case, I say “no, we went through fertility treatments.” Typically, I get a few questions or a short side story about a friend of a friend who had an IUI. On more rare occasions, the person has experienced infertility herself. There is always an instant bond with these people, because you know that they too have walked a lonely road that is very difficult for someone who has not walked it to understand.

In this case, the fellow twin mom not only had zero experience with infertility, she conceived with an ease that makes every fellow past and present infertile drool. What made her different, though, was her interest. Many are interested in the science behind the procedures. Fewer ask about the emotional impact. Even fewer REALLY ask.

Part of our groups conversation involved the experiences of pregnancy: morning sickness, bed rest, stretch marks, discomfort. When I first joined this Bunco group I was not yet ready to have children, so I didn’t have much to contribute. While trying initially, these conversations interested me. As we sunk further and further without any luck, they became painful. Even now, with 2000 pictures of my beautiful twins in my phone, when someone asks if twins runs in my family, it stings a little. It stings because I’ll never forget how painful those conversations sometimes were and how alone I felt. I’ll never forget feeling like I saw pregnant.women.everywhere. I’ll never forget how bitter the experience made me feel for a long time. How annoyed I felt when someone would complain about a pregnancy I would give my left arm to have and sometimes forced me into another room to shed a few tears before I could compose myself.

Fellow twin mom, taking interest, began asking questions not only about the IVF procedure itself but about how it felt to go through it. She said she had a friend who has had difficulty conceiving and, incidentally, been acting differently lately. She asked me if I thought being around her might be difficult for her friend, if she maybe felt bitter about the fact that her ability to conceive had been so easy. I was honest when I told her that was possible.

She was shocked. She told me she had no idea. That she meant absolutely no harm. This time, I understood.

I think I speak for many when I say that one of my biggest complaints was what felt like the lack of understanding from others. In hindsight I suspect it was more a lack of information than understanding. Through no fault of their own, people just have no idea. Truth be told, before I was ready to have a family, I didn’t either. In fact, I recall responding to the news of an acquaintances miscarriage with “at least she knows she can get pregnant” (not to her, thankfully). To this day, knowing what I know now, I am ashamed by that comment. I didn’t even want to type it out.

This post has sat unfinished in my drafts for two days because I am not sure how to finish it. I guess the experience brought some new understanding into the minds of others. When you’re in the throes, it’s so difficult to see the good natured side of some of the things people say. It seems, though, that many are really good intentioned. I was. Little did I know (at the time), though, the impact those words could have had. I, like fellow twin mom, meant no harm.

From inexperienced, well intentioned but likely insensitive, to the person on the receiving end of well intentioned but possibly insensitive comments, to someone who has now been on both sides being asked about someone else’s experience, it seems like, in a way, I’ve come full circle.

And I feel just as confused as ever.

*If this offends anyone still struggling, please accept my apologies. This was really just may way of trying to sort out my own thoughts and feelings about this particular issue.

 

Leaving a Mark (Part 2)

Shortly before we underwent our IVF, I decided to get a second tattoo. I got my first in 2007 and started to entertain the idea of a second after I ran my first marathon. After infertility became such a huge part of my life, and particularly after the post where I compared it to a marathon, I really wanted to symbolize them somehow.

So in July 2012, I nervously stepped into a local tattoo parlor and got this

You can read the full story about that here 

Part of the reason I decided on this particular design was that it could work two ways. First, infertility will always be with me, because it and the experience really changed a great deal about the way I look at life. Second, if/when our treatment was successful, I could use it to symbolize things that are most important to me, things that are closest to my heart.

When our cycle was a success, I knew I’d somehow want to add the twins. This past Monday, I finally walked back into the tattoo parlor (though not as nervously this time) and got back into the chair.

A pink and blue foot for each of my little ones 🙂

A pair of footprints on my foot 🙂

Why There Probably Won’t Be a Number Three

I got an interesting, out of the blue request the other day.

The marketing department from the fertility clinic both called and wrote me an email, saying Channel 2 was interested in doing a news story on a patient who had taken Letrozole as part of their fertility treatment. Would I be interested in participating in this interview?

Honestly, at first I didn’t recall taking Letrozole, but once I googled it realized it was just the technical name for Femara, one of the meds I was given to take for our IUI cycle. The crappy hooray we have enough sperm to try an IUI canceled IUI cycle. The point of the interview, though (if I understood correctly) was to talk about how there is a smaller chance of multiple eggs and side effects (vs. using Clomid which I have not ever taken) and not whether it was part of a successful pregnancy, so I agreed.

I met with a photographer today who admittedly didn’t have much background on the subject of either infertility or the medication. I had no knowledge of what kind of questions they would ask, so we were both kind of winging it. He seemed confused as to why they would interview someone who had used it during a cancelled cycle and what exactly a cancelled cycle meant while I awkwardly stood in front of a camera trying to explain that the med had done what it was supposed to do and that the fact that my cycle was canceled had nothing to do with it. (This was all while trying to describe it to someone who had no idea what I was talking about.)*

As part of the interview, he asked me how it felt to have a successful cycle and how it felt to have a twins as a result (I am paraphrasing) and I meant every word when I said that it was an emotionally and financially taxing time, but that it was absolutely worth it and I would do it all over again.

I was kind of lying.

Right up there with my divorce, infertility was one of the most difficult things I’ve endured. I’ve written several posts before about how hard it is on ALL of your relationships, your emotions and even your sense of self. Even now as a mom it creeps in through feelings of guilt when I find myself annoyed over the 2nd middle of the night wake up.

Bryan sometimes expresses interest in having more, and while I watch some friends’ bellies grow, attend baby showers and coo over their newborn pictures I sometimes, briefly, think that it would be cool to experience again. For Abby and Miles, I would absolutely 100% relive every bad day and cry every tear. I would do it all over again, for THEM. But not for any more.

I have absolutely no interest in meds, injections, monitoring appointments and blood tests. No more appointments. No more transfers. No more anxiety.

I am just fine with two.

*I’m sure they will piece something together thanks to the magic of editing, unless they just decide to cut it altogether. Should I get word it is airing I will try to record and post it 🙂

 

 

National Infertility Awareness Week – Another Marathon, Metaphorically

As part of this years theme “resolve to know more”, I dug up an old post I did awhile back as part of an analogy project in order to attempt to explain what infertility feels like.

I’ve finished two marathons.

It still feels weird to say that out loud. That, twice, I’ve trained, run 26.2 miles, and crossed the finish line. A feat I once related only to “crazy people” (well, that’s still appropriate) and people who run way too much (oddly now also appropriate).

When I started this blog, it began as a week by week training log for my second marathon, as I was preparing to do it mostly alone. A journey to the finish line. It also began as a place to log my fertility journey, as I was starting to feel more and more alone. Another journey to the finish line.

Infertility is a marathon.

At the start of the race, the excitement is palpable. We have all trained for this. We got up at the chirp of the alarm (and in my case, after several smacks of the snooze button) and regardless of the weather, regardless of mood, regardless of (most) illness, we ran. We ran 12, 16, 20 miles on a Saturday for no reason other than this day, this opportunity to run this race, cross this finish line, accept this medal, and feel this incredible accomplishment.  We skipped movies and drinks and went to bed early. Months of runs, hundreds of miles. We are ready.

Adrenaline begins pumping right from the beginning, the first few miles a breeze. A thousand or more people in your exact situation are running with you, some a bit faster, some a bit slower, but it doesn’t matter. You’re all in this together. Even if you lose the people you started with, there are still plenty around to match pace with, plenty of energy left to get yourself there.

Discomfort begins to set in as the miles add up. The number of people begin to thin. You begin to realize just how far 26 miles is. You start to wonder what you got yourself into, and start the ipod search for your most motivating songs on your playlist. If you didn’t know you could run 20+ miles already, you might consider dropping out. But ultimately the vision of the finish line, the medal, the feeling of victory keep you going. Somehow, something pops up at just the right time that keeps you from declaring defeat – a random cheer from a stranger, a particular song, knowing who is waiting for you at the finish line.

Pain sets in around mile 20. The end feels so close yet so far away. Your body starts to scream at you. The group of a thousand you started with has dwindled down to 3 or 4. The slight envy you once felt for the faster runners has turned into full out jealousy. You know you’ve trained harder than most of them. Seriously? How are you all finishing before me? You begin to feel every step, every pound of the pavement. Any change in terrain is physically difficult to recover from. Curse words are becoming more regular.  None of the three hundred Ipod songs are gonna do it, and even taking in half a Gu (an energy gel for distance runners) every mile doesn’t seem to be doing a darn thing. You hurt, you’re tired. You’ve gotta be the only one hurting this much. The finish line, though only a few miles away, feels like it’s never going to appear. The warnings that the true test is after mile 20 suddenly make sense.

Somehow, though, through combination of a force of will, stubbornness, training, and the few out of the group that stuck with you, you cross mile 26. And suddenly, though there are only a few runners left in the immediate vicinity, the crowd gets larger. You suddenly forget how sore you are because you can SEE the finish line. Somehow, you muster the energy to finish strong,  because suddenly you hear your cheering section, the crowd clapping, the announcer calling your name.  Somehow, you finished, and you feel incredible.

Also, you still hurt.  But despite it, you kept running.

When I first stepped foot onto the pavement my first run, (which was like, halfway around the block before I couldn’t breathe anymore) – I never imagined myself running a marathon. In fact, even after my first half marathon several years later I thought to myself “who wants to essentially do this twice? No thank you!”

When I first imagined myself with a family, in my house with my white picket fence (though I’d really prefer a privacy fence at this point in my life), I never imagined it would be a problem. I didn’t even know what infertility was.

I’m still waiting to cross the finish line.

In retrospect, I survived marathon training one run at a time, one week at a time, one long run at a time. I survived the race, particularly at the end, one mile at a time. It still hurt, in fact, it hurt quite a bit. At the end my calves were so sore I literally hobbled to the car.

But I’d do it all over again. I’ll remember that day and who was with me for the rest of my life. All of the pain and exhaustion was absolutely, positively 100% worth it.

One day at a time, one mile at a time, I await the day I can say that again.

I do want to add now, though, that even though we now have our two kids, I’m not sure there is ever really a “finish line” in infertility, because no matter what the outcome, it is always with you.

National Infertility Awareness Week – The Cost of Infertility

I’m putting a couple regularly scheduled posts on hold this week (except for my weekly twins update) in order to participate in National Infertility Awareness Week. This years theme revolves around the idea of “resolving to know more”.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, fertility treatments are not cheap.

The American Society of Reproductive Medicine (ASRM) lists the average price of an in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycle in the U.S. to be $12,400. (ASRM does not qualify if this includes medications.) We sought to find the price of intrauterine insemination (IUI), one IVF cycle using fresh embryos, and the additional charges for intracytoplasmic sperm injection (ICSI) and preimplantation genetic diagnosis (PGD) (where offered) from a cross section of clinics throughout the U.S. We called and e-mailed clinics that did not list prices on their websites, and discovered that some clinics generally do not give cost information over the phone (but they did for this story). When clinics do list the prices on their website, the information is clear and easy to understand, without many exclusions or disclaimers. RESOLVE encourages all clinics to post updated pricing on their websites.

• Average cost of an IUI cycle: $865; Median Cost: $350
• Average Cost of an IVF cycle using fresh embryos (not including medications): $8,158; Median Cost: $7,500
• Average additional cost of ICSI procedure:$1,544; Median Cost: $1,500
• Average additional cost of PGD procedure: $3,550; Median Cost: $3,200
  (Note: Medications for IVF are $3,000 $5,000 per fresh cycle on average.)

Several interesting trends in clinic pricing have surfaced:

• In areas with few infertility clinics, prices, on average, are higher
• High cost of living does not equate to high treatment costs
• IUI prices ranged from $275 to $2,457—a huge differential. Some prices quoted include medications, blood work and sonograms; others do not—hence the huge price differential.
• ICSI prices across the country are within $500 of each other—$1,000 to $1,500.

Our total cost, including initial docs visits, tests, medications, one IUI and one IVF cycle was 17,000+. And many spend much much more.

(Info taken from the resolve website.)

Finances aren’t the only expense though. To give an example of this I’m going to resurrect/link back to one of my old posts written before we started our IVF cycle on The Cost of Infertility.

 

Giving Yourself A Raise

As I sit and stare at the blinking cursor in front of me, my nearly 1 year old twins play among a mass of toys on our family room floor. My son crawls around with a toy hammer in hand and with each forward motion you hear “bang, bang, bang”, while my daughter lays on the floor babbling a conversation that it seems at least she understands. Even a year later it still feels unreal to use the words “son” and “daughter” as I often feel like I should be talking about someone else’s kids.

I have only had a handful of jobs in my life. I didn’t work much as a teenager as I was fortunate enough that it wasn’t a requirement. I did some babysitting. Between my senior year and freshman year of college I worked retail for Carlton Cards. During college I worked part time at the dining hall to have spending money. Graduate school was a full time job in and of itself, and since graduation I’ve worked as both an adult and pediatric Speech Pathologist. I consider myself a hard worker – I’m honest, organized and have decent (hey no one is perfect) time management skills. Everyone appreciates being rewarded for hard work, and almost nothing is more exciting than a raise.

During the infertility battle I swore I wouldn’t moan, groan or complain one iota, I begged and pleaded with God and life to grant me this job. I promised I’d take every sleepless night in stride. I promised I’d happily give up just about anything if I could just have a family. Three years, a failed insemination and a successful IVF later, I was finally granted the job of “mom”. I often hear mothers describe it as one of the toughest jobs in the world. In fact, this video saying the very same thing has gone viral recently. I was asked recently what I do to reward myself or “give myself a raise”, so to speak, after all my hard work as a mom.

As it turns out, I become a mother and began eating my words. I have moaned, I have groaned and I have complained. Maybe its because of my history, but I find it difficult to feel like I need to reward myself as a mom. I sometimes feel guilty for complaining about the difficulties that come with the job. I feel as though my reward should come in the form my son and daughter who I wished for with all my heart. This isn’t to say I don’t do things for myself, however when I think of rewarding myself for a job well done, motherhood is only part of the equation. I am also a wife, a friend a Speech Therapist and a runner. Interestingly, just as I feel there are several pieces to the equation, I also vary in what I find to be my favorite type of raise or reward. Often its curling up with a good book, browsing the Target shelves alone or with a friend, or a cup of coffee. Sometimes its a run, a date night or a piece of cake. Sometimes its a compliment or time to blog. Other times you just can’t beat a pedicure. And there are plenty of times when all I need is for one of my babies to reach for me or call out “mama”.

What’s your favorite way to reward yourself for your hard work (mom or not)?

*This post was written as part of a campaign by raise.com, a site where you can either buy discount gift cards (with free shipping!) or sell unwanted gift cards to others.*

Lets Be Honest – My Boobs Are Sore and That’s OK

First, I’d like to apologize for my absence – we were fighting yet another round of illness in the house this last week. :p

Today’s guest post comes from my friend Pricilla who blogs at Fashion and Fishing.

 

My Boobs Are Sore and That’s OK

At the end of this month, it will be two years that my husband Will and I have been trying to get pregnant. And while most anniversaries are commemorated, this one will not be celebrated with a toast or a bottle of champagne. On Sunday afternoon I noticed that I was spotting. This was day 12 post ovulation. My boobs were sore, I was angry with every ridiculous comment my coworkers were making in emails, and I cried for 10 minutes after watching a Subaru commercial (You know the one where the puppy turns into a dog, then the young dog turns into an old dog, and all the while the Subaru stayed the same. It just got me). But these symptoms were all to familiar to me. This was not implantation bleeding. This was not a random occurrence. I was getting my period. Just like clockwork. The Priscilla of a year ago would of sulked in the bathroom for 15 minutes.  But not any more. I cleaned myself up, walked back into the living room, gave Will a big hug and told him what was going on. Then I smiled and asked him what we should do for lunch. Because that’s what the Priscilla of lately does. I smile and keep moving on. And for those of you who are in the same infertility boat as me, I know what you are thinking. After years of trying, how do you do it? How do you smile and pretend that the past month of acupuncture appointments, hormone shots, vitamins that taste like glue, gluten free only menus, not-so-romantic pre-scheduled intercourse, and countless hours of watching the days ticking by and crossing our fingers that it will work out…how can that not even matter? And it does matter. But at the same time, in between the acupuncture and the hormones there were road trips to see old friends, long walks holding hands under an avenue of oak trees, laughing at our clumsy puppy attempting to jump off a dock, and listening to our favorite bands at music festivals. Our journey to parenthood is made up of more then just tears and sorrow. And while the finish line of our journey seems far out of sight, there are so many amazing things going on at the same time, more than enough to be grateful for. And maybe the journey to our baby was meant to be long so that when he or she finally gets here, it will mean that much more. It will mean that we put all our love for months and months and months to bring this baby into the world. And this baby will be made from more love than I could ever imagine ever sharing with someone else. And a baby made of that much love must be extra special. Heck maybe he or she might cure cancer or end poverty! But the odds are that it’s not going to happen next month or even the next.  And right now as I type this, I know its not going to happen this month. Because my PMS’ing boobs are really sore. But that’s ok. Because I’ve got a movie cued up on Nexflix, a big bowl of popcorn mixed with M&Ms, and a tall handsome man warming up a spot on the couch for me. And my wish to everyone else who is on their journey to parenthood is that you find laughter through your tears. And even though trying to get pregnant will always be there on your mind, don’t forget to stop and enjoy all the other fun, silly, crazy, romantic, exciting moments that life has to offer.

*Always looking for more guest posts – blogger or non blogger!

Who Keeps You Healthy?

Exercise has been a part of my life from a young age. Even before running I was always an active kid. I still have fond memories of playing kickball in the street until the streetlights came on, riding bikes from house to house creating a pretend city, tag, hide and seek, ghost in the graveyard and the slightly more dangerous red rover. As I got a little older I started to get involved in organized sports, specifically gymnastics, slow pitch softball and soccer. In high school I was a member of the colorguard and participated in that and winterguard some in college. (I realize those two activities don’t sound all that active but I promise you they are). It was in college that I started fitness classes, yoga, and then running.

From the outside I appeared to be your average health conscious college student. I watched what I put on my plate in the dining hall, took the stairs instead of the elevator and when I shared an apartment off campus my senior year I often rode my bike or walked to campus instead of riding the bus. I attended fitness classes, used exercise equipment at the gym or ran 5-6 days a week, rarely breaking my set routine. I didn’t drink often, didn’t smoke and maintained a healthy weight.  The Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines healthy as: having good health, not sick or injured, showing good health. (source) As seen using the naked eye, I was healthy.

Except I wasn’t.

I was teased often as a kid, but never for my weight. Still, something triggered my brain sometime in high school and I believed that I was not only overweight but fat. I began carefully watching fat grams, convinced that eating only low and no fat foods would help me lose weight. This only progressed over the years as I switched from counting fat grams to calories – calories consumed and calories exerted. After a few years, I could not only tell you the average number of calories a certain activity burned but also the number of calories in most foods. If I didn’t know it, I looked it up and memorized it. If I couldn’t look it up I grossly overestimated so I could be sure I burned it off later. Although I was never clinically diagnosed with an eating disorder, I had a disordered relationship with eating for the better part of 6-8 years. I was never physically underweight but I was obsessive. I was thin and I was in good physical shape, but I was depressed. I was hungry. I was anxious. I was the opposite of healthy. This isn’t to say the exercise didn’t have any benefit. It was still a great stress reliever and helped keep me fit and motivated even when my mindset about it wasn’t so healthy.

It took several years of therapy and self reflection before exercise transformed from a weight related obsession to something that could truly be considered healthy. I can comfortably say that now and for the last several years I truly feel healthy, both mentally and physically. I am of course grateful for the friends who helped me and the therapists that talked me through my issues, however I also recognize that change can’t happen until one is really ready. If I weren’t willing to make the necessary changes in my eating habits and the way that I viewed myself, I would more than likely still be suffering.

I was asked who I consider to be my “health hero”, i.e. who or what motivates me to lace up my running shoes, lay down the yoga mat or pedal the bike for a ride. I considered this for awhile, and at first I thought I might write about how I stay healthy for the twins because I want to set a good example, or because I want to be healthy long enough to see them and their children grow up. I thought about thanking my husband for being so supportive and for his many compliments that help keep me working hard. And while all of this is true, the person that really motivates me more than anything is me. I do it because I’ve learned that exercise helps me stay happy. I am less anxious and more energetic. I like the person that I am and feel comfortable in my own skin. It gives me my me time and an ability to work through worries in my head. It helped me stay sane during infertility.

It took many years, many tears and many mistakes but today I am healthy and today I am grateful that I took charge of my life and health. The person who keep me healthy? It’s me.

We win!

To read more of these stories, feel free to visit the community section of The American Recall Center, where they will be sharing more blogs on this topic. Posts will be going up at the end of the month.

Who is your health hero? Write about it!